


Your Face Tomorrow

by Astarloa



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen, Identity Issues, Mark of Cain, Psychological issues, Season/Series 10
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-08
Updated: 2015-02-08
Packaged: 2018-03-11 04:07:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 994
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3313301
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Astarloa/pseuds/Astarloa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for a prompt by liliaeth at hoodie_time: Dean is arrested after another Mark of Cain rampage and sent to an institution. Sam wants to rescue him, but Dean refuses, believing that the institution will keep him under control.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Your Face Tomorrow

Dean’s decided things aren’t so bad, all things considered.

He pushes runny eggs around with the plastic spoon, paints a pale yellow face with a crooked smile against the plate; long wiggly hair and smushed-up beans for eyes. _Hey there, Sammy, looking real sharp. Bet you make all the girls hot and don’t even notice._

There’s an explosion of noise somewhere to his right.

He looks up. Lenny’s gone and lost it again, lunging across the table at one of the nurses. Must be a Thursday. She’s screaming for help in mewling, wet gurgles, hands scrabbling against whatever it is Lenny’s managed to hide away this time and stick in her neck. 

Dean grins, wide and bright. 

Showtime.

He stands up, cracking his knuckles, and heads over for some fun. ‘Cause Lenny’s a real mean fucker, no doubt about it, but that Dean Winchester? Oh, yeah, he’s even worse.

:::

It’s dark when Dean wakes, head thumping unsteady and sullen to the beat of a new same-old, same-old. He swallows, trying to work some spit into his mouth, nausea twisting through his gut. Thinks he can remember the Doc saying something about a concussion, Lenny on life support with a crushed windpipe maybe, but the thoughts slip away too fast to catch.

He gives up and watches shadows shift across the wall for a while instead, before giving his arms an experimental tug.

No surprises there, but damn. 

Restraints make his wrists itch, always have. It’d be enough to drive him crazy if something else hadn’t gotten there first. He barks out a laugh, because you know, _funny_. Then his head protests and the sound shifts down a gear into a groan. 

_Shut it, Winchester._

:::

Hours pass, memories getting lost in the shuffle. It worried him at first, the gaps left behind by time chowing down on itself, but not so much any more. Everything’s gotta eat, right?

He doesn’t pay much attention when the door to his room cracks open, fluorescent light spilling in from the corridor.

It’s just one of those things, nothing he can do about it. More nurses who avoid his eyes, overweight security guards past their use-by date always trailing behind. On any given day the scariest thing in this place is Dean and no one expects any different. The knowledge brings a strange kind of comfort, if he’s honest. 

“Hey, sweetheart, think visiting hours are over,” he says, loose and happy. 

Only this time the door closes with soft click, and a voice says, “Jesus, Dean.”

Someone’s sucked all of the air out of the room; he should make a complaint, ‘cause there’s gotta be rules about shit like this, and he will, just as soon as he catches his breath. 

Sam can’t be here.

See, Sam’s smart, but at the same time he’s all kinds of stupid. He still sees the brother who tied his shoelaces and mocked his hair, bought him used paperbacks from junk stores. But that guy? He’s worn away, so long gone Dean wonders if he ever existed in the first place. Maybe some drunk dreamt him up one night, coming off the wrong side of a bender.

He doesn’t want Sam within a hundred miles of the reality.

:::

“Came as soon as I could,” Sam is saying, fingers working at the buckles around his ankle. The restraint pops free and Dean grunts, flexing his foot in relief. “The security here’s really tight, like you wouldn’t believe. But I hacked into their camera system and -”

“You need to leave.”

“What?” Sam looks up, confused. “Yeah, man, that’s why I’m here. To get you out.”

Dean growls in frustration and kicks his brother’s hands away. “C’mon, Sam, wake up. I’m not leaving, because places like this? I’m the reason they exist.”

Sam shakes his head, but keeps his eyes fixed on Dean’s chest. “No.”

“Look at me.”

Slowly, Sam raises his head. They stare at each other. 

“Those guys I took apart? They were scum, had it coming every which way you look at it. Not losing any sleep over them.” Dean’s throat tightens and something in the back of his mind whispers _liar_. “But I didn’t do it because they were bad people, Sam. Did it because it felt good.”

Sam’s shaking his head again, so Dean does the only thing he can. 

He draws his lips back from his teeth and lets his face fill with the wild, feral rage he’s tried so hard to keep hidden. He pulls against the restraints, hears them creak with the strain. He tracks Sam with his eyes, like prey, and sees the moment Sam gets it; the way his brother’s body straightens as he steps away from the bed, hand moving to the gun resting against the small of his back. 

_That’s my Sammy._

“Go,” Dean says. 

Sam opens his mouth as if to argue, but in the end just gives a defeated shrug and backs towards the door. “Okay. Tomorrow, I’ll…you’re allowed visitors, right? We’ll talk about it tomorrow, when you’re not so - ”

“And the answer will be the same.”

“Tomorrow,” Sam repeats, expressionless, as if Dean hadn’t spoken. He hesitates, and then steps out into the corridor, pulling the door closed without looking back. Still, Dean’s been watching Sam his whole life, knows what it means when his brother sets his shoulders like that.

He’ll keep trying. 

Stupid, stubborn bastard.

Dean squeezes his eyes shut and presses the side of his face against the scratchy pillowcase. If he cries it doesn’t matter, there’s no one to see and he’s not gonna tell. Another few hours and they’ll come get him for breakfast. It’ll be eggs again, guaranteed, and maybe today he’ll see Bobby staring back from the plate. No more Sam, not for a while. He can’t risk it.

_Hey, Dad, you there? ‘Cause listen, you’d be so fucking proud of me. I’m doin’ my job, just like you said. Keeping him safe._


End file.
